I've begun the process of improving myself.​It's as simple as taking a good look,picking out the frail and broken pieces,and replacing them with something strongermore reliable.My heart had been the greatest example.It trapped my mind in a feedback loop of empathy.Every beat was biased,an amalgamation of what everyone else was feelinginstead of what should have been only me. So I reached insideand carved it out.Now, with a stone sewn into it's place.I can walk the world unburdened.See it all for what it truly iswithout the weight of feeling.

I feel like I'm being pulled in all directions at once,my limbs wrapped in thick rough ropesheld in the hands of grinning devils,all chanting and cat-calling,taunting me with all that I could bethat I could create.

I know no one has the time to do everything,because when I stretch myself too thindevote myself to too many projects at once,my joints begin to strainand I hear those voices cackling even louder in my ears.

It's a self-created torture that I'm trapped inside.A rack of my own devising,that I slip myself into again and again,knowing full-well the consequencesand the sensations from my last time beneath the ropes.

The light peeks gently from beneath the thick shadows.Eyelashes sway as soft eyes brightencasting rays of goldto assure the world that a new day does come,even if it must slog through muck and grimestraying from path to overgrown pathuntil it reaches it's destination.The new day will dawnand although none know what it will hold,not even the light,the possibilities are endless.All we have to dois open our eyesto see what new adventures await us.

Everyone always tells me to smile.You'll get more tips that way.You'll look prettier.Don't be a downer.

But sometimes, I don't want to smile.Sometimes I want to rip that mask from my face,tear off my skin if I have to,and show people what I actually feel.The gleaming sinews that writheand twist under their scrutinytheir forced optimism.Somehow communicate to themthat I don't even know what I'm feeling anymoreunderneath that painted-on smile.Just what the world keeps telling me​I'm supposed to feel.

I know when most people think of poetrythey think of beautiful pastoral descriptionsor love letters.Celebrations of our favorite parts of this world.

But as a poet,sometimes I get tired of typing out the same old lovely letters.Sometimes, I want to cut out my heartand slap it wetly upon the pagewatching the spurtsto see what patterns they make.

Don't get me wrong,there's no shame in writing about loveunicorns and rainbows.The world is full of thatand people love it.

But the darkness is just as presenteven if we want to ignore it.And there are dayswhere that's the only type of writing I can do.There should be nothing wrong with that, right?But a lot of people are afraid of those shadows.

Sometimes I write pretty words.But other times,the monsters inside of me grab holdand twist the tendons of my fingers,choreographing their own dance across keys,and telling those stories that are painful to hearbecause they show us what we spend our lives denying.

If I can't muster up the brainpower to write a simple poem,then what am I good for?

If I call myself a writer,then what am Ion the days that I can't even do that right?

When my words dry up,does my identityand worth wither away with it?

If that fountain of energy and inspiration no longer flows,am I just a cracked,empty vessel,destined for the scrap heapor a Goodwill donation?Do I have just as much worth sitting here,not writing,as I would beshattered upon the ground?

I'd like to thinkI have more valuethan that.But sometimes,it's hard to feel that way.

At first, your senses are just in shock,as you're caught between a pulsing bass,flashing lights,and bodies shifting around you.

There's too much for you to take in,so you simply stand there,stunned and sticking to your friends' sides,trying to ignore the elbows of those walking by.

Eventually, you may start being able to experience more.Interesting people stand out to you,or the songs are recognizable again,and you can enjoy swaying or jumping in rhythm.

Either that, or every loud noise,nearby sudden movement,or environmental change,jerks you back into the present again,where the music's too loud,and the crowd's dense enough to squeeze your lungs,making air difficult to draw in.

Your heart starts pumping,and you need some airthat hasn't been exhaled by a hundred others.Space to move and shiftwhere you won't bump into half a dozen people at once.Where the night is coolerthan a struggling air conditioner can compensate for.